S.G.

Freshman year. Oh my god a wild time. A time where I could finally explore new friends, new parties, new boys, and new memories. It’s spring quarter and the weather is warm. I go out with my new friends and laugh carelessly as we bounce from party to party. I love this place. This is the best year of my life. 

Until my alarm goes off. It’s time for work. Except I don’t recognize my dorm room. I don’t recognize anything at all. I realize I’m naked. I look down between my legs and realize there is blood. I find my phone and realize there are several missed calls from my friends. I stand up to collect my clothes and realize the pain. Oh my god the pain. I could barely walk. I go outside. I realize I am several blocks away from the house I last remember being at. I realize I don’t know what to do. So I go to work. I push the pieces of evidence from that morning to the back of my mind and I am numb. Until they won’t push back any further. Until I realize what happened. I realize my new reality.  

“Where were you last night?” I receive with playful grins and knowing glares. Except they didn’t know. They couldn’t know. I could not be that girl. The girl who drank too much. The girl who makes a wild accusation. The girl who kicks a fraternity off campus that holds so many of her closest friends. So I smiled, I laughed it off, and fabricated a story of a drunken hookup. This will be the reality. But in fact, it was the denial. A story I even tried to convince myself. Because this doesn’t happen to girls like me. 

3 shots. I only had 3 shots…or was it 3 shots? I flashback to the police station. Explaining to the cop and the rape crisis representative the ritual of a handle pull. It’s how we drink here. There aren’t enough cups for everyone who attends the party. “Girls really DO that?!” The ridicule and judgement in their tone was too much for me to bear. I retract my statement and no police report is filed. My actions that night are now evidence against me. Evidence that this was my fault. 

This is part 2 of my trauma. Or maybe part 3…Part 2 was probably in the stirrups. The nurse asked me a series of personal questions in excruciating detail in which I had no option but to answer the truth, “I don’t know”. She then examines all parts of my body. It’s cold. I am so vulnerable. And with my legs wide open she gasps and asks if she can photograph and film inside of me. I just look at her. She then explains, “this is the most severe cervical bruising I have ever experienced in my career.” Her career. As a rape crisis nurse. I can only imagine the number of stories she is unknowingly a part of. With tears welled in my eyes, I agree. Because at this point, what else do I have to lose?

How will I tell my friends? How will I tell them that I can’t sleep and have random spells panic without having to feel the guilt and shame of admitting I put myself in a scenario that provoked this incident. I don’t. And I continue to ensure the masses that I am living the perfect life. But how will I tell my parents? The people who love me most and cherish my safety above all else. Will they pull me out of school? Will they isolate me from all my friends by telling me to stop going out to parties? I pondered for this a long time and couldn’t handle the shame and embarrassment of explaining this event to my mom, the strongest person I know, that I let this happen to me. Months went by and I hadn’t left my bed. One day my mom walked in my bedroom, sat down, and said with the most perceptive look in her eyes. “I know what happened to you”. I just stared, afraid of how to rebuttal. Do I confess? Do I deny? Do I ridicule her for assuming such an outlandish event? But she knows me better than anyone else. She knew I was not the same girl I once was. 

They tell you about rape. They tell you that it exists, how to prevent it, and how to cope with it. But what they don’t tell you about is the unexpected and unforgiving triggers that loom in your day to day experience. Even with heavy amounts of therapy. Even when you think you’re doing great. They come, and I am back in bed for days on end with no emotional capacity to explain why. How do I explain that I am angry? Explain that the reason I cannot get out bed is not because of what happened to me. But because of the empathy I feel for the women experiencing this every day. How do I explain that the world is just not doing enough?

And the triggers continue… 

Sophomore year included walking into my first group therapy session, and being absolutely mortified, humiliated, and ashamed as I looked to my left and saw a fellow a teammate of mine across the room. I almost ran out. I didn’t want anyone in my life to know. But then it hit me, she’s here because it happened to her, too. 

Junior year included a girl on my doorstep. Blacked out. Afraid. Crying. It wasn’t her that triggered the amount of rage flaming in my body. But her friends, who refused to come and take her home. They don’t understand. This could have happened to her, too. 

Senior year included walking out of a bar with my best friend. We were being followed. This man had been harassing her for weeks. After she sent him away, he pulled up in a car. I called 911. The female officer arrived at our house and continued to ask a series of accusatory questions. My friend asked me to stand with her. She felt victimized. As I stood there, the anger boiled inside of me and jumped to her defense. I was asked to leave. She doesn’t understand. It’s happening to my friend, too. 

I finally, after 3 years, I have grown enough in my experience to share my story. I do not share it for me. I share it to protect my friends and social circles; my colleagues, teammates, and coworkers. I share it to spread awareness. I share because I know I’m not alone. I share it because way too many women in my life, women I look up to, women who do good, and women you would least suspect have had to say the words “me, too”. And I know I’m not the only person who is pissed off about it.

I share this story because women are not safe. And this is a sad reality of the world we live in. No one is exempt from this reality. I share this story so maybe someone. Anyone. Will take us seriously. Will advocate for us. Will believe us. I share because I believe in a world where women can take back their safety. Where we no longer have to be afraid. I share because the world needs to know that we need it to change. That we need a collective effort from men and women everywhere to make change. To force change. So that no one that we love ever has to face this shame. This fear. This depression and anxiety that comes with the words, “me, too”.